Tribble
by Rose Mello
Summary: It makes little to no sense in any intellectual manner; and in no logical way benefits him or any other being. And so, after the hours of day and nearing those of midnight always found him gazing intently at the small furry tribble with the piercing black button eyes and superhuman blood pumping through its delicate veins. Jim Kirk was alive and that tribble was proof.


Tribble

It was anything but logical, he decides.

A compulsion perhaps, an obsession if he were to consider it deeply enough to begin to comprehend his reasoning. It makes little to no sense in any intellectual manner; and in logical way benefits him or any other being. He knows that if he were to dwell on his actions and purpose, that the entire predicament would prove utterly unsatisfactory and bordering on the bare sharp edge of vanity. And yet, despite everything he had understood and the conclusion his Vulcan side had drawn, he very much knew that nothing in its entirety would ever be able to force him to stop.

He had attempted, of course. Multiple times, in fact, to draw himself away in a haze of work and meditation. He had created a schedule so busy for himself that it seemed a miracle he even had the time. And yet, he had been unable to stop. At least once in the spam twenty four earth hours he had to give in. Perhaps it was curiosity, though such a theory had him bathing in doubt. Fascination was always reasoning he could provide, as well as interest… and yet neither was the honest factor to what he had been doing.

His mother had often told him it was okay to feel, to be able to comprehend and embrace emotion even in a compromising manner, because despite his exterior; Spock remained half human.

And so, after the hours of day and nearing those of midnight always found him gazing intently at the small furry tribble with the piercing black button eyes and superhuman blood pumping through its delicate veins. Running within its glass aquarium of plants and supplies, its breath continued to expand its miniature ribs and send a wave across its glimmering amber fur. And whilst exhaustion would creep along his mind and lull him to sleep, he would close his eyes with the vision of the little animal breathing and healthy and _living _in its home beside his bed.

He convinced Doctor McCoy to allow him to keep it, assuring him it was for no scientific purpose whatsoever. The other man had seemed surprised, but Spock could see something like understanding and empathy filter within his orbs before he had hastily agreed and went to check on his remaining patients.

So evidently, Spock could justify his reasoning with several reasons, though they would all be ominously untrue.

His life had revolved on nothing similar to sentiment less than three hundred and sixty five days earlier. He had been focused on academics, education and all aspects logical. He had been Vulcan. Now, less than three hundred and thirty five days later, he found himself experiencing such intense emotions he had lost all control he had possessed in a mindless, vengeful rage. He had become human. And in those less than three hundred and sixty five days later, the one main aspect which had changed in his life had not been his attendance on the Enterprise, the destruction of Vulcan, nor even his mother's passing.

No, it had been James Tiberious Kirk.

Pressed against the thick cold glass of the barricade of the radiation chamber, with his palm pushing almost painfully into the hard clear surface, he had met Jim's dying, dulling piercing blue gaze and held it. And for the first time he could recall, he felt something surge within him. Something stronger than anything he had ever experienced before.

A tide of futility and senselessness and emptiness washed out the fear and worry and sadness. Only to be replaced by the blossoming roots of fury and vengeance.

When Jim had begun to recover, Spock had spent every waking moment of his time seated on an uncomfortable chair beside the stark white mattress on which his Captain lay. Vulnerable and pale and sickly, dark shadows had encircled his weary orbs and weakness had come upon him in waves which left him exhausted and struggling for breath.

But days later Spock was needed once more, as the Enterprise required every available source of help in her own mission to recovery. Soon, hours saw him gazing deeply into the darkening throes of space and glimmering lights of stars with none of the usual comforts the universe used to provide him. Days later he had a constant frown across his brow and his hands tightly clenched into fists to the point of whitened knuckles, behind his back as not to be seen. Days later he had found himself attempting to dull and quiet the half of his mind which refused to listen to the Admirals' instructions or care much for their authority as it buzzed with fear and worry.

_Had Jim stopped breathing in the time Spock had been at the helm? Were there any complications? Did the hospital personnel know, or were they caught unaware in the throes of this commencing frenzy of madness? Had he woken once more in pain? Was he fine? How many minutes left until Alpha shift would end and he would rush in long, forceful strides to the sickbay and calm his raging thoughts by assuring himself through the Captain's still breathing figure?_

So one day, as Spock had found himself in moment of rarity in which he could spend more than mere minutes at his friend's side, he had spotted something jittering and rustling within a glass cage in the corner of his vision. _The tribble. _

So he had requested, with whatever poor reasoning he had been able to provide, to house the small animal. To monitor it. To make sure that Khan's blood had no strange, unexpected side effects or repercussions. To make sure it still _lived_. To make sure _Jim_ would still live.

In the tangles of night whilst he was required to rest and was very much away from his friend, he remained in his room meditating or resting to the sound of the light, unaffected breathing of the tribble. There was not much more he could do, but for the moment being, he _could_ do this. He had hoped with every fibre of his being that nothing would happen; that nothing would go so horribly, unfortunately wrong as it usually did with the ridiculously misfortunate luck of his Captain. And for a short time, nothing happened.

Until one day, it _did_.

The night had faded into dawn and it could not have been earlier than fifteen hundred. He had slept several hours, unusual and due to his recent exhaustion; forcing him to limit the time he spent monitoring the tribble yet timing the rhythm of his unconscious to the melody of its inhales and exhales. The shift in which his eyes had suddenly opened had not left him confused or disoriented, but sharp and scrambling toward where the tribble way in its glass cage.

Still and unbreathing.

He could have sworn his heart had stopped beating for the few sullen moments in which he took in the lifeless form and the worst began to filter into his brain. _It was never going to work. It was always going to end. It was always finite._

The next few minutes had been the mad dash to the Doctor's quarters with the unconscious; dead; tribble lying lifeless and motionless in his arms. McCoy had seemed irritated at the intrusion when he unlocked the door, but immediately sobered up with wide alarmed eyes as he took in the scene before him, and suddenly he _knew_.

That day was one Spock never wished to remember, nor dwell on. He did not want to embrace the fear and anxiety and apprehension instilled within him as his greatest horrors had become reality. He did not want to think about how human Jim Kirk had made him.

Later, it was found that the tribble itself had choked on a slice of poorly diced replicator food which had blocked its slight airway. They had managed to revive it on time and whilst Spock sat, deflated from the tiredness blossoming in his chest due to such strong emotional turmoil, McCoy had gone to yell angrily at _whoever the hell was responsible and incompetent enough to be so bloody stupid, _his loud southern drawl echoing over ad from the plain corridors. Spock had held his head in his upturned palms, and for the first time, allowed his emotions of relief and respite to loom over him and crash metaphorically into him. He had allowed himself several thick breaths before gathering the animal once more and retreating into his quarters, detouring into Jim's room and relishing the sound of his breathing for some time. He had spent the rest of the night with eyes fixated on the tribble.

There had been nothing wrong with Khan's blood. _But what if there was next time? What it just wasn't evident yet? What if it wasn't physical? What if Jim was not going to survive?_

But Jim did. And it took several weeks for Spock to allow himself more than the necessary three hours of sleep every second day. Soon, Jim was inviting him to play chess by his bedside because he was finally strong enough to left the pieces and his fingers didn't tremble so much that it was painful to watch. He had remained awake for the three hours that had become the game which both Captain and First Officer were far too engaged in to notice the time flying past. And that night, for the very first time in quiet the while, Jim smiled a smile which reached his eyes.

And Spock couldn't help but smiling too.

There were good days and bad days and days Spock just wanted to forget, but after all those hours and all that exhaustion, he still made it. As did the tribble. As did Jim.

Even weeks after they had reached Earth and his Captain had made his miraculous recovery; slightly paler and thinner and wearier than he had been initially, and yet still _living,_ Spock kept the tribble happy and healthy and living too. Even weeks after Jim Kirk took command once more of the Enterprise and the world had begun to spin again, and Khan's blood kept flowing through his veins and fighting the radioactivity, Spock stayed up several hours at night watching the tribble; watching it move and breathe and recover, just as Jim had.

Jim Kirk was alive and that tribble was proof that he would remain so.


End file.
